Thanks for stopping by. I’m no longer updating Bad on Paper, but you can now visit me at blog.jenburns.co.uk (or what I’m referring to as “Bye Bye Sunshine State”).
Thanks – and happy reading,
The lesbian, gay and bisexual charity Stonewall certainly has got my attention. I caught sight of their new campaign on the back of this Cardiff Bus last week, and, at the risk of sounding smackably twee, I found it pretty inspiring. So much so that I had to lean across the dashboard and take a photo at a red light.
The best part? “Gay. Get over it.”
Here’s my latest piece, a string of interviews with strangers about their sex lives for Nerve.
I was pleasantly surprised at how forthright and receptive people were. I started this project fearing that someone, at best, would tell me off or, at worst, punch me in the face.
I want to be a dancer: a sparkly, spangly nymph-like creature with long limbs that cut sharp, measured movements. With explosions of fiery glitter in my wake, naturally.
The reality, though? I forget my props; I chuckle apologetically as my fellow dancers spin right while I reel left; the searing frustration as I, once again, miss that crucial step everyone else seems to grasp. It’s coordination that eludes me: trying to master it is enough to make me hang up my dancing shoes and exit stage left.
Sound like the perfect burlesque performer? Hardly. But I’m working on it, with a little help from Miss Foo Foo Labelle, Cardiff’s own Madame de Burlesque.
Deep inside my whingeing about the British weather, I’m sometimes guilty of failing to the appreciate the truly spectacular.
Not too shabby, eh? I reckon these pictures give the Florida sunsets a run for their money.
I’ve decided to shut down Bad on Paper for the time being. I might resurrect it in the coming months, but in the meantime, thanks for reading and all the best!
My first foray into support artistry was marked by nervousness and cheap biscuits. It’s worth mentioning the last time I was part of any production (where I was in the spotlight, if you will), I was eight years old, playing the part of a singing Calamity Jane in our school’s rendition of ‘Tall Tales and Heroes’. I’m still scarred.
I never wanted to get into the industry, but if I did, it would’ve been as a writer or a make-up artist. I’m more a behind-the-scenes kind of gal, but I’m trying to abide by the Drew Barrymore mantra, ‘Life is short – try everything!’ Especially when paid the meaty sum of £55 for the privilege.
When I was a teenager, I used to consider myself a ‘guy’s girl': a romping, chomping, beer-guzzling wise-cracker. An interest in violent cinema and a mouth like a loaded sailor came as standard.
Things like camping sounded fun. And declaring I enjoyed such a merry outdoors activity made me seem low-maintenance and fun.
Upon further reflection, I realised I’d only been camping three times, and every trip, I tried to conquer my crippling anxiety over clambering bugs, soggy weather and undesirable midnight visitors. But it didn’t work.
There’s no way around it. I’m high maintenance. I’m ashamed of my unwavering attachment to creature comforts – but I still crave getaways with hot showers and wireless internet access.
Don’t worry, this won’t be one of those ‘urbanite eschews city life for one whole day and finds herself’ stories because that would be a lie. Continue reading